


The Claws that Catch, the Hands that Carry

by clusband



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-03 15:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: Four times you got the timing wrong, and one time you didn't.





	The Claws that Catch, the Hands that Carry

_i._

Your night starts with a text from Wanshi. _Have you seen Lanque around?_  

In a way, it’s fortunate that you happen to know so many people. With timing bordering on the comedic, Elwurd dms you next. _Lanque is making a mess out of my abLution bLock and I have somewhere to be- can you heLp me take care of this?_ With a rush of fond feelings, you imagine the exasperation in her voice. You smirk as you send her your ETA via goregle maps, an inside joke between the two of you. She sends you an eye-roll emoji back and you laugh. You’re excited to see her, even if it’s just for a favor.

It turns out Elwurd isn’t even at her hive when you get there. You aren’t sure if you should feel honored that she trusts you in her hive alone, or disappointed in her absence. Lanque isn’t always easy to deal with, and you would have liked another person here with you to help diffuse the tension.

You find him hunched over the load gaper making awful retching noises, his tie and jacket removed and long forgotten in the corner. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his eyes are squeezed shut against the light. He brings his shaking hand up to his forehead- he must have a headache, too. He’s probably dehydrated along with whatever else is going on. Your best guess is a bad hangover.

He glares at you, squinting from under the heavy cover of his eyelids.

“Enjoying the show?” he spits at you. He looks distinctly uncomfortable- not with his own predicament, but with your presence. He reminds you of a wet cat, and you just pet him backwards from tail to head. You wish he would relax. He glares a little harder. You get the message, and start rummaging under the sink for a clean towel, or some paper towels, or something.

After a few minutes of bustling anxiously around the bathroom, you finally find a stack of clean washcloths in the closet just outside the door, along with a few bottles labeled “ElectroSpite,” an electrolyte replacement drink.

You wet the washcloth in the sink, not looking at him. Not directly, anyway. You can see out of the corner of your eye that his shoulders are slumped, his face averted, as he wipes his mouth delicately on the back of his hand before rubbing at his eyes. His whole face is drooping, in a way. His make up, usually meticulously applied, is smudged and his eyes are heavy. Even his brows can’t stay put- every angry look he makes is quickly replaced by exhaustion.

You bend to his level and place your hand opposite his jaw, encouraging him to face you. It’s amazing how much indignation he can fit on his face between his seasick expression and the vulnerability that he’s desperately trying and failing to hide. You grab him gently by the wrist, removing his hand from over his eyes, and wipe the cool washcloth over his brow in its place. He keeps his eyes clenched shut, as if not seeing this moment means it’s not happening, and allows you to continue. After you wipe the sweat from his forehead, you run the washcloth under some more cool water and just. Hold it there. Let him know that you’re here.

He turns from you to face the gaper to vomit again, and you turn your face away from him to give the illusion of privacy. You reach your hand out behind you, then pause, hesitating. Everything in you is screaming to soothe him, rub his back, wipe his face. But. You don’t want to be pushed away. Not again. You settle for uncapping the electrospite instead, and washing an empty cup so he can rinse his mouth.

The snap of the seal breaking catches his attention, and he snatches the cup full of water off the counter greedily. He rinses his mouth in a hurry- you don’t blame him, you’d want that taste out of your mouth as soon as possible, too- and you offer him the electospite. He scoffs at you, reading the label, before chugging the whole thing down with a grimace. You know from experience that stuff is weirdly saline. A little bit spills out from the corner of his mouth in his haste, drips down his chin, but he wipes it away with his arm. You wish you could have wiped it for him. You wish you could have done more.

As soon as that thought hits you, Lanque stands. He’s clumsy and slow about it, and you have to point to his jacket behind him so he doesn’t forget it. He brushes past you, leaving you alone at the sink, before pausing in the door, his hand on the frame. He stands there for a moment with his back to you, tense, as if standing still is taking all of his energy, before leaving you there without a word.

  
_ii._

Bright lights. The thrum of the bass. The thrum of your head. You’ve had too much to drink and you want to go home. 

It’s funny, how Lanque invited you here with him as if you weren’t helping him get over a nasty hangover two nights prior. It’s funnier still that Bronya immediately tried conspiring with you to bring him back to the caverns once she caught wind of your plans with him. But you didn’t find it very funny when Lanque immediately ditched you once you got inside. You didn’t find it funny when Skylla invited you to play ‘never have I ever’ with her and just one shot made your head spin like it was your fifth. You should have never come here tonight- you feel lonelier here in the crowd of indifferent trolls than you did alone in your dilapidated hive.

 _Water_ , you think desperately. You push your way through the mass of trolls, grabbing on to one unfortunate troll’s sleeve as you trip and attempt to catch your fall on her. _Water_ , you think desperately, as you help her up, and she gives you one of those ‘I’m pissed but before I murder you, is it possible I’m pale for you?’ sort of looks. 

You find your way to the kitchen- it’s a miracle worth writing a song about. You hum a small tune, making up lyrics under your breath as you face-plant right into the sink.

* * *

The deep dark. The hum of an automatic fan. The fuzzy hum of your thoughts. Your head is killing you and you really hope that you made your way home.

Your eyes slowly adjust- it’s not actually dark in here. You have a bandage over one eye and a pillow over the other. You sit up, taking note of your surroundings. You’re sitting on a deep crimson couch, on the walls are posters of different animes and tv shows. There’s one drawing of Wanshi’s soldier purrbeast oc (a fluffy tabby with four white socks and a white nose and chest) along with another sleek, pure white cat with one orange and one green eye. This must be Lanque’s room. You look wildly around the room for him and find him sitting at his computer desk, eyeing you, his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“You’re awake- are you going to face-plant onto something else?” He teases with a smirk. You shake your head no as you feel the bandage over your eyebrow.

“You fell into the sink like a drunk idiot. Don’t worry, the bandage is just to cover the blood. You aren’t that injured.”

You sigh in relief as you start to peel it off. He keeps his gaze fixed on you. You keep expecting him to give you shit, or maybe smirk at you some more, but he doesn’t. His worried look is set deeply in his features, and it looks so put on and unnatural on his face you think it might be for show. But the defensive cross of his arms suggests that he’s genuine, like his face is saying ‘I care’ but his arms are asking ‘what are you gonna do about it?’ It’s cute, but you’re feeling awkward about it. You don’t want to ruin the moment by getting too emotionally vulnerable with him, but you do want to let him know that you like seeing him emote something other than snark and dislike. 

“Is that why you brought me back to your room, because you were _so_ unconcerned about me?” you tease him. He looks away, averting his eyes, but not before you see the smile in them. 

“Who said _I_ brought you here? Maybe it was Bronya.” He turns back to typing on his husktop. You know a dismissal when you see one. 

As you gather your things and call for a lyft, you look back into the room. He hasn’t turned to look at you, like you’d hoped. 

“Lanque,” his ears point back to you, listening, but he doesn’t pause in his typing.

“Thank you,” you turn and leave the room without a backwards glance. You hear his typing stop and the squeak of his desk chair as you close the door behind you.

 

_iii._

 

Lynera is the last person you expect to call you about a disaster, especially if that disaster happens to be about Lanque.

 _-He won’t leave his room! and!! it’s his turn to clean the hatching corridor!!!_ She texts you in a fury. That makes more sense. You explain to her that you’re doing your best to get there as soon as you can, but there are no lyfts available and the omniscuttlebus that you’ve been waiting for is reserved for lowbloods, so it might take a while.

After about an hour, you finally make it to the caverns. Lynera gives you a sharp glare from under her cleaning hood- looks like she got stuck with the cleaning duties anyway. You duck past her to Lanque’s room. You knock to no answer. Not that you're surprised; you’d be shocked if he could hear you over the troll Evanescence he has blasting. So you text him instead.

He peeks his head out, looking around suspiciously, before grabbing you by the upper arm and yanking you inside.

You quickly assess him and his room: he doesn’t appear to be wounded and everything is in its proper place. You take a step forward and slip a little, then you see the problem. You gather your context clues before speaking: the hair on the floor, the little green stool next to an end table which is holding an electric razor and a hand mirror, the way he keeps bringing his hand to the back of his head. He must have messed up his hair cut.

“Can I see?” you ask. He scrunches up his face, irritated, before he explodes.

“This is all because of Lynera! She knew I was due for a haircut, and she just had to choose right when I was cutting it to bang on my door to remind me of my duties! As if I didn’t know!” He goes on like this for a few minutes-he even turns down the music so you can hear him better, and you do your best to listen attentively and without bias. You try to suggest that maybe it was an accident, but he’s not having it right now. All right, you think, he’s riled up and he needs a distraction before he gets even worse. Without thinking, you blurt out “I can fix it for you.”

He stops mid tirade. You’re thankful for it, you didn’t really want to start trash talking one of your friends. He gives you a suspicious look, then he sits on the stool without fanfare, crossing his arms.

You’re shocked. There’s no way it’s this easy. He pulls out his phone and brings up a tutorial on grubtube: _how to fade hair for beginners_. This makes more sense. He had a plan and now he has someone to help him execute it.

“You will follow this video exactly. And you will not make a mistake,” he commands. Wow, you figure he must have really fucked up his hair if he’s trusting _you_ to this. You get behind him and your suspicions are confirmed; there’s about a 3 inch bald spot right at the edge of his hairline. You run your fingers over it and he shudders, but he doesn’t pull away. You smile at him. It’s easier now that he can’t see you.

You end up watching the video three times together, and then twice more on your own before you can even muster the courage to pick up the razor. Once you turn it on, he lowers his head, tensing his shoulders but otherwise allowing you access. You’re touched at this display of trust, of intimacy, even, but you need to keep your head on straight if you’re going to do this properly.

The first guideline, as it turns out, is the hardest. After the stress of perfecting that, however, the rest comes to you naturally. Make your guideline. Fade it out. Clean it up. Check the guard. It’s soothing in its rhythm.

Lanque seems to think so, too. His head has relaxed, bowed over his chest and he leans his elbows on his knees, and his shoulders have retreated from under his ears. You even think you hear him let out a slow, even breath once or twice.

It’s over too soon. You did a pretty good job, you think with a swell of pride. You couldn’t completely get rid of his bald spot, but you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. You realize that your hand is holding his head steady right under his horn. You blush, embarrassed. Then you blush, frustrated with yourself. You just want to care for him. And you do. Why is everything so difficult with him- is it possible you aren’t trying hard enough?

You trail your fingers behind his ear, deep in thought, then you decide ‘fuck it’ and lightly scratch and massage his scalp. He lets out a content moan, low and quiet in his chest and it’s so cute you think you feel tears come to your eyes.

“All done,” you tell him. You keep your voice low, as if he’s sleeping and you don’t want to wake him. He checks it out with an immaculate application of his hand mirror and his compact mirror, then he hums in what you choose to interpret as approval.

Then he says, “I look like an asshole.”

You’re shocked. You thought you did a pretty good job! Then, as he angles his mirror up to let you catch a reflection of your aghast expression, you realize that he’s not passing judgement on your work but rather the style of his hair, and you start to laugh. He huffs a little laugh, too, and you’re on top of the world.

He stands and wipes off the hair from his clothes meticulously; it takes forever. You stay where you are, and he turns to face you.

You’re too close to him, oops. He doesn’t move away, though, keeping you in his personal space as he looks down at you, simultaneously studying you and trying to interpret what just happened. You guess you just ran your hands through his hair like a long term lover. You blush, but you hold your ground. He’s the one who trusted you to cut his hair, you think. Surely this means something, you think.

He ends up looking away first with an expression so inscrutable it’s borderline ridiculous. Before you can even think to laugh or comment, he grabs you by the fingertips, rubbing his thumb briefly over the soft skin there.

“Thank you,” he says, breaking his hold. He moves into the corner to grab a broom and dust pan. You show yourself out.

 

_iv._

 

The buzz of your phone startles you out of your day dream. Your commission from Remele is finished.

You’re on top of the world as you make your way to the caverns. You’re so excited to gift this to Wanshi that you can feel the flutter in your gut, the spring in your step. You pick some wild flowers for her on your way, wrapping the stems in a bit of leftover ribbon. It feels like even the moons and the sky are conspiring to make this a good day. The wind at your back lightens your spirit, and the light reflecting off the moons warms you all the way through.

You know the caverns well enough. Even in the dark, the left-right-down the stairs-back of the hall pattern you follow to get to Wanshi’s room comes to you by habit now. You knock on her door and are startled when Daraya answers it.

She’s wearing a black tank-top and green pajamas with a cherry print. She gives you that look- cheeks puffed out, eyes wide- that tells you that she wasn’t expecting you and she’s trying to hide her embarrassment.

Luckily for both of you, Wanshi calls out to you, running out of the room and hugging you excitedly.

“We’re having a girl’s day,” she informs you as she pulls away, holding out her hands to show you her nails. Daraya painted them black with jade stripes- they’re impeccable, really, all of the lines straight and tidy. You explain that you didn’t mean to intrude, but she waves her hand as if she can knock your words out of the air. It’s a strangely adult gesture and you look back towards Daraya- she rolls her eyes and makes the same hands together in front of the chest motion that Bronya makes, donning an exaggerated, air-headed smile to go along with the gesture. You snort, Wanshi looks back right as Daraya goes back to crossing her arms in front of her chest, putting on her indifferent expression like a true virtuoso of teenage apathy.

You pull out the package from behind your back and watch as Wanshi tears into the wrapping. She exclaims a little “oh!” her hands coming up to her cheeks and her eyes going wide.

Within the box is a poster depicting Wanshi’s soldier purrbeast oc, mid-pounce on a garbagebeast with her claws extended and teeth bared. Slightly behind that is your soldier purrbeast, head lowered aggressively. On a whim, you’ve even asked that Remele add Lanque’s oc in the back, surveying the scene with a passive interest, perched gracefully on a fallen branch. You’re impressed with Remele’s technique. The perspective is incredible, it feels like you’re about to be pounced on. Wanshi tapes it excitedly on her wall, right next to her own drawings and stories that she wrote. She thanks you excitedly, hugging you again, before the three of you are launched into an awkward silence.

You decide that maybe you are intruding after all, and as Daraya studies your gift, you ask Wanshi where Lanque is. You might have stopped by his room to show off your gift earlier and noticed his absence. Daraya turns to look at Wanshi. Wanshi looks back toward Daraya. They exchange knowing looks. Uh oh.

“Oh! Do you know where Bronya’s room is?” Wanshi asks you, her face all innocence again. You nod.

“Good. If you head that way, but keep going straight instead of turning right to her room, you should be able to find him.” Wanshi explains this all as she half walks half drags you to her door. With a final ‘thanks again,’ she closes the door in your face.

Well, shit.

* * *

Wanshi’s directions were on point. As you walk straight past Bronya’s room, you hear the sound of running water. Soon, you find yourself in front of a large pool of water. You had no idea there were underground lakes in the caverns. Some water is cascading lazily down a pair of reclining rocks from a hole in the ceiling. The lighting here is ethereal; instead of torches, there’s bioluminescent fungi and algae. It takes a minute for your eyes to fully adjust, but once you do, your breath leaves your body in an amazed rush.

Above you is a city of stalactites, dripping and sparkling with water, and all around you are more of those mushrooms and small, dim fairy lights that you didn’t notice before. Upon closer inspection, they are all different colors, branching out in different directions. You think they must help direct the younger jadebloods to different parts of the caverns, all a specific color in order to avoid anyone getting lost.

Lanque is sitting on his heels in front of the lake, one hand trailing in the water serenely and the other on top of a small plastic terrarium. He either hasn’t noticed you or is too focused on the task at hand to care much about your presence. As you move closer to him, you notice the small, fond smile he’s wearing, his relaxed posture. He looks like a totally different person. No pretense, no expectations.

You get close to him, he still pays you no mind, and you kneel next to him, bumping his knee with yours. He brings his finger up to his mouth, shushing you, then he taps the back of his wrist. He’s waiting for something.

You wait with him patiently, letting your fingers feel the water alongside his. The water is shockingly cold. The air in the caverns is oppressively humid around you in contrast. Lanque lets up the top of his terrarium, which in turn lets out a pungent, fishy smell. You pull your fingers out of the water in a panic as the water roils and bubbles around you. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves before shoving his hand into the terrarium, then flings some fish chunks out into the water.

You look closer into the depths- there are about 25 huge fish swimming speedily around the fish chunks. You look at him, bewildered.

“Look closer,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

You look closer. What you thought were fish are babies? Their weird grub bodies are all engorged and they have bizarrely trollish faces. A few of them have long fancy fins like beta fish, others have stranger, stiffer tails like a lobster, most just have little fishy fins all in a rich, bright hues of violet- the variety astonishes and transfixes you. They’re swimming in sync in a whirlpool of their own making, biting at and chasing each other to be the first to eat.

“Aren’t they cute?” Lanque turns his face towards you, smiling so genuinely it makes your heart hurt. The grubs all scatter as he speaks, startled by the noise. You absolutely do not find them cute, but you give him a noncommittal hum anyway, turning back to the water.

He continues this dance with them, drawing them to him by rippling the water, throwing the fish for them, then reaching in to grab at them before chucking them back in the water as the grubs hiss and bite at him. He’s an expert, and as the time passes, you decide that the grubs maybe are kind of cute, in a way. He takes notes in a thick, bookmarked journal, making note of the size of them, how many there are, what style of tail, their behavior and temperament. With all of these notes recorded, he assigns them a sign. The process seems completely random to you, but he seems well practiced. He must know what he’s doing.

The grubs have quite the vocal range- as Lanque stops studying them, they all eventually swim up to the edge of the water, curious about the two of you. Some chirrup at you inquisitively, a few make little ‘ah!’ sounds- Lanque tells you they’re being bratty and demanding which makes you laugh _(you would know,_ you tease him, and he punches you in the arm). Mostly, though, they just bite and hiss if you get too close to them.

“I’ve always preferred rust grubs, personally. They’re sweet,” he says this unprompted, “but they’re a bitch to clean up after. Seadweller grubs all build their cocoons under water. It dissolves.” You think back to Lynera in her cleaning hood, and you feel guilty as you have to suppress a laugh.

Lanque seems to follow your line of thought, because he smirks conspiratorially with you. He picks up one of the more docile grubs, scolding her softly as she grumbles and struggles in his hold. He holds her out to you, asking if you want to hold her.

You really don’t, but you reach out to grab her anyway. Her body is weirdly solid and wet and cold, like you’re holding a raw steak. You touch her hair and it feels like corn silk.

“Don’t go near her face, she-” she bites you and you drop her with a whelp back into the water. Lanque laughs at you, loudly and without abandon. You glare at him- insincerely, the bite startled you more than it hurt- then you shove him playfully.

He grabs onto your shoulder as his laugh starts to die down. He pulls you down back to sitting once all of the grubs have left, startled by his laughter. He cuffs up his pants- you never thought you’d see the day- and dips his feet into the water. You join him shortly. The cool water is a sweet reprieve from the humidity and you relax, closing your eyes.

“I thought you didn't like it down here,” you tease him lightly. He glares at you, giving you the sort of side eye that makes you feel like an idiot.

“What I don’t like is my lack of a choice,” he says shortly, hissing the words from through his teeth.

He turns to face you fully, rubbing his brow with a sigh. You expect him to looked pissed, but he’s smiling sadly.

“...but I do find things that make it worth it,” he meets your gaze, significant. You can hardly breathe; Lanque’s game of hot and cold keeps you unsure of what’s going to happen next. The otherworldly light down here has cast his face into a harsh chiaroscuro and the mist that sprays off of the waterfall glitters in his hair. He looks unreal, so beautiful and so, so fragile with his hopeful smile.

You hear your name, called with urgency. Lanque grimaces, bringing his hand over his eyes in exasperation. Bronya descends down the steps and finds you at the edge of the water.

“The sun’s almost up! What are you still doing here?” Amazingly, she either doesn’t notice the tension or chooses to ignore it. You’re almost impressed at how bad her timing is. She turns to Lanque and asks him all manner of questions about the grubs. You hadn’t realized that they were so close to their trials. You wonder if Lanque is going to miss them.

As you find your way back to the surface- and Bronya has called a ride service for you, bless her- you wonder if Lanque is going to miss you.

  
_v._

Your evening begins, and ends, with soft applause.

When Elwurd and Lanque invited you to join them at a slam poetry event, it felt almost too good to be true. Lanque’s scathing comments at the performers shocked you enough to draw you out of your shell, and Elwurd’s honest personality helped you enjoy being present. The two of them played well off of each other as well. Lanque’s barbs didn’t stick to Elwurd at all, so he simply didn’t make any. Elwurd’s tendency to be passive-aggressive was met with Lanque’s tendency to be actively-aggressive and so her comments never made it too far past his wall. Your fifth and final beer was settling cozy in your belly right as the last performer stood for their applause.

Elwurd walks the two of you to the door, then goes her separate way to a different club. Lanque walks you to the corner, then he walks you home.

It’s the kind of night that people write about in stories. You’re nearing the dim season, so the air is cool, and the moons are struggling to shine their dim light through a cloudy sky. The lights of the city shine down like the light of a stage. Lanque has his hands in his pockets, but he’s speaking earnestly. He talks at length about the one slam poet he did like. He certainly didn’t have this much to say about them when you were back in the cafe. You relish in his honesty. He even recites some of their lines in his own cadence. You like the way the words fit in his mouth better.

In turn, you try to draw him out. You ask him about his poetry, how he got started.

“I just had so much to say,” he starts, with a such a small, nostalgic smile that you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking so hard. It’s refreshing to see him like this, open and honest and talking at length with you. He’s not saying it outright, but he’s struggling to open up with you. Still, you see it. You see it in the way his shoulders draw up to his ears. You see it in the tilt of his head. You hear it in his tone. And you reflect it back on him, validating his pain, his anger.

You’re home before you want to be, but there’s only so many ways you can double back without him noticing.

He’s stopped talking; the context of the scene is different now and so he puts on a new face. You try drawing him back out with a smile, a joke. _Talk to me,_ you think. He doesn’t take the bait.

You thank him for walking you home, and he gives you the sort of ‘yeah no problem’ that means he also doesn’t want this to end just yet. And so.

You lean in to him. He draws back, furious.

It’s so frustrating, how he pulls away from you like this. He walked you home, for fuck’s sake. You had a good night together. Now’s not the time to pretend that he doesn’t care about you.

He crosses his arms and looks away, half pouting and half defensive.

“Why can’t you just let me like you? Why do I always have to run the gauntlet of how _you’re_ feeling before I let myself feel what _I’m_ feeling? I can’t always set the stage for you!” You try not to be aggressive, but your feelings are hurt and you’re at your wits end.

He closes his eyes. Oh fuck, you hope you didn’t push him away with that. He tilts his head back toward you, looking at you shyly from the corner of his eyes. He sighs. His whole body loosens with his breath, and he untangles his hands from the fabric of his sleeves and brings them to your wrists. Slowly, he draws your palms flat on his chest while looking at you through his lashes, frowning. You trail your fingers over the fabric there, sliding your palms from chest to shoulders to the back of his neck. He brings his arms gently, tentatively around your waist before he bows his head to meet your forehead.

“I’m trying,” he breathes. So you meet him halfway, the first brush of his lips against yours sending fire throughout your face and down in your belly. He holds you tighter around your waist, breathing in the scent of you, before he pulls away, looking bewildered. Scared.

“You need to talk to me,” you ask him, halting his retreat by bringing your hand to the back of his head. “I want to hear what you have to say,” you murmur against his lips.

And, with every line of his body, through every tense expression and every mask he wears, he speaks.


End file.
